Living in the Hotel
Mr. and Mrs. Rivaz, who managed the Hotel from 1957 to 1964, had three daughters: Clair, Sally and Dee, who played and grew up there in that most unusual setting. These are some of their memories...
Sally recalls "fishing in the gully with a silver christening mug which wasn’t very securely fixed to the line and of course fell off. I think various people dived for it without success."
Sally also remembers "running the Loggia as a dance club and getting in a local group who played every Friday night - exactly the same numbers in the same order! The formidable Mrs. Beggs would clear the bar at closing time with no problems whatsoever."
Dee remembers "the poor old house having extremely dodgy electrics. Come winter, Dad would have a go at repairing some of the wiring faults and eventually would order us all to take shelter behind a sofa, just in case, saying, ‘When I throw the switch, we’ll either go up in smoke or the lights will come on.'
"The same electrics were responsible for the fish tank in the bar carrying enough of a charge to give anyone touching it a bit of a shock. But Dad enjoyed the effect so much that he didn’t fix it until one day, Mum was reaching over a busy bar to hand a guest his whisky, brushed her hand against the tank, and threw the poor man’s drink in his face. I think it got fixed after that.
"My guinea pigs were always escaping, following the staff in a long squealing line along the service corridors or popping out from under chairs, causing mayhem or hilarity among the guests, according to their fondness for small rodents.
"I think I caused a terrible row between the Sailing Club and my father when I discovered that my tiddly winks worked the bar-billiard table just as well as the sixpenny piece needed to buy 15 minutes of playing time. Accusations flew when the cash box was emptied, but I was never suspected.
"Gerry the head waiter was WONDERFUL. He was very fond of children (he had a brood of about a dozen himself, as far as I remember) He used to make sure we had something to eat, however busy it was and was never cross with us, however much we got in the way or nagged him. Lovely man.
"I’m afraid poor Mum and Dad were so busy most of the time that they simply didn’t have time to keep a close eye on us. Our adventure playground was anywhere from the roof of the hotel to the cliffs and beaches and I’m sure there were more instances where innocent parties – particularly in the Sailing Club crowd, were blamed for our sins."
Out of Our Depth
My mother packs the linen
into baskets big enough to hide in.
April sun makes such games dull as winter.
Can we swim? The sea’s too cold.
My sister folds her arms: Not for us.
Two poached eggs table four, and milk,
where’s the bloody milk?
My mother runs.
Chef and commis tango
in a scramble of steam and eggs,
bacon and kippers to go.
Plates dance from aga-hob
to bain-marie, from hand to table
and back, stacked with skin and bones,
cigarette ends and half eaten sausages.
Water thunders into steel sinks.
Down the cellar steps, muffled
sounds hang with shadows and a faint tang
of last summer. Her face grim, my sister
frisks the walls for life jackets, canvas, coils of rope.
If we can’t swim we’ll sail.
No-one sees us leave
except for gulls drifting high,
with one eye on Llewellyn’s lobster pots,
the other on the hotel bins.
We find Deb, our tiny boat,
still in hibernation,
have to drag her, trolley bumping over stones.
Then suddenly she’s alert and weightless,
taking off in crystal, icy water.
Get in, get in,
and the sand fades
into a shadow dance of rock and weed,
reaching up to finger our reflections.
We tack across the breathless surface of the bay,
zig-zag out to the thrill of open sea.
Back on land, tiny dolls make their way
up the hill. Look, I point, it’s the lunch time shift.
But something’s wrong, my sister’s standing,
tiller unresponsive in her frantic hand;
a fish off the hook, the rudder’s gone
We throw our arms up yelping.
They wave too, the dolls, and trudge on to work.
The wind, snappish now it’s found us,
slaps wire on wood and salt in our faces;
waves thump the rocks ahead.
My sister takes our tiny paddle,
wildly stabs the rising swell. You promised me,
I whine, you promised we’d be home for lunch.
She tears the main sail down
in salty pools about our feet,
and kneels like Hiawatha;
she stabs and scoops and claws the water,
facing down the offshore wind. Then jumps
and swims, the painter around her waist.
Deb straining in her fragile wake,
to answer the call
of the wild North Sea, but my sister
battles back to shore, more fearful
of domestic storms; my rascal-hero,
in trouble again, when we get home.
Dee Rivaz
Sally recalls "fishing in the gully with a silver christening mug which wasn’t very securely fixed to the line and of course fell off. I think various people dived for it without success."
Sally also remembers "running the Loggia as a dance club and getting in a local group who played every Friday night - exactly the same numbers in the same order! The formidable Mrs. Beggs would clear the bar at closing time with no problems whatsoever."
Dee remembers "the poor old house having extremely dodgy electrics. Come winter, Dad would have a go at repairing some of the wiring faults and eventually would order us all to take shelter behind a sofa, just in case, saying, ‘When I throw the switch, we’ll either go up in smoke or the lights will come on.'
"The same electrics were responsible for the fish tank in the bar carrying enough of a charge to give anyone touching it a bit of a shock. But Dad enjoyed the effect so much that he didn’t fix it until one day, Mum was reaching over a busy bar to hand a guest his whisky, brushed her hand against the tank, and threw the poor man’s drink in his face. I think it got fixed after that.
"My guinea pigs were always escaping, following the staff in a long squealing line along the service corridors or popping out from under chairs, causing mayhem or hilarity among the guests, according to their fondness for small rodents.
"I think I caused a terrible row between the Sailing Club and my father when I discovered that my tiddly winks worked the bar-billiard table just as well as the sixpenny piece needed to buy 15 minutes of playing time. Accusations flew when the cash box was emptied, but I was never suspected.
"Gerry the head waiter was WONDERFUL. He was very fond of children (he had a brood of about a dozen himself, as far as I remember) He used to make sure we had something to eat, however busy it was and was never cross with us, however much we got in the way or nagged him. Lovely man.
"I’m afraid poor Mum and Dad were so busy most of the time that they simply didn’t have time to keep a close eye on us. Our adventure playground was anywhere from the roof of the hotel to the cliffs and beaches and I’m sure there were more instances where innocent parties – particularly in the Sailing Club crowd, were blamed for our sins."
Out of Our Depth
My mother packs the linen
into baskets big enough to hide in.
April sun makes such games dull as winter.
Can we swim? The sea’s too cold.
My sister folds her arms: Not for us.
Two poached eggs table four, and milk,
where’s the bloody milk?
My mother runs.
Chef and commis tango
in a scramble of steam and eggs,
bacon and kippers to go.
Plates dance from aga-hob
to bain-marie, from hand to table
and back, stacked with skin and bones,
cigarette ends and half eaten sausages.
Water thunders into steel sinks.
Down the cellar steps, muffled
sounds hang with shadows and a faint tang
of last summer. Her face grim, my sister
frisks the walls for life jackets, canvas, coils of rope.
If we can’t swim we’ll sail.
No-one sees us leave
except for gulls drifting high,
with one eye on Llewellyn’s lobster pots,
the other on the hotel bins.
We find Deb, our tiny boat,
still in hibernation,
have to drag her, trolley bumping over stones.
Then suddenly she’s alert and weightless,
taking off in crystal, icy water.
Get in, get in,
and the sand fades
into a shadow dance of rock and weed,
reaching up to finger our reflections.
We tack across the breathless surface of the bay,
zig-zag out to the thrill of open sea.
Back on land, tiny dolls make their way
up the hill. Look, I point, it’s the lunch time shift.
But something’s wrong, my sister’s standing,
tiller unresponsive in her frantic hand;
a fish off the hook, the rudder’s gone
We throw our arms up yelping.
They wave too, the dolls, and trudge on to work.
The wind, snappish now it’s found us,
slaps wire on wood and salt in our faces;
waves thump the rocks ahead.
My sister takes our tiny paddle,
wildly stabs the rising swell. You promised me,
I whine, you promised we’d be home for lunch.
She tears the main sail down
in salty pools about our feet,
and kneels like Hiawatha;
she stabs and scoops and claws the water,
facing down the offshore wind. Then jumps
and swims, the painter around her waist.
Deb straining in her fragile wake,
to answer the call
of the wild North Sea, but my sister
battles back to shore, more fearful
of domestic storms; my rascal-hero,
in trouble again, when we get home.
Dee Rivaz